Return to Oak Valley (49 page)

The two men went about their business while Shelly, oddly disinclined to leave, wandered around the house. Upstairs, she checked her former bedroom to be certain that she'd left nothing behind. She hadn't.

Nick had taken the suite next to Roman's—as he'd told Shelly, “I wouldn't feel right sleeping in Josh's room.” Her lips twisted. It would probably be a long time before anyone slept in that room or that they stopped calling it “Josh's room.”

Starting down the hallway, she hesitated when she came abreast of Josh's room. Opening the door, she took a deep breath and walked inside. She'd gotten rid of his clothes weeks ago and had put away most of his personal things, but the room still felt as if Josh would come strolling in at any moment. His death was still unresolved in her mind. Suicide seemed so out of character, yet murder…. She shook her head. Neither seemed feasible.

She sat down on the bed and gazed around the room. She sighed, her fingers idly playing with the slim book of poetry that sat on his nightstand. She'd noted it earlier, but hadn't paid much attention to it other than to think that it was an odd choice for Josh. He'd never been much of a reader and had never cared for poetry. She sighed again. Another unknown facet of her brother?

Picking up the book, she fanned the pages.
Well, Josh, did you have a favorite poem? Something soothing you read before you fell asleep each night?

She'd no sooner had that thought than the pages stopped flipping through her fingers and the book lay open—as if Josh had turned frequently to this particular page. And Josh had, she realized, seeing the thin slip of paper wedged between the pages like a bookmark. It was hidden inside the book, as if Josh hadn't wanted to mark the passage in an obvious manner.

Her gaze dropped to the page, the page that had apparently held appeal for her brother. It was a poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson, entitled “Richard Cory.” Curious, she began to read.

RICHARD CORY

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

We people on the pavement looked at him:

He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;

But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.

Shelly smiled thinking that Richard Cory sounded a lot like Josh. Intrigued she read on.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—

And admirably schooled in every grace:

In fine, we thought he was everything

To make us wish that we were in his place.

Definitely, Josh, Shelly thought. But reading the last stanza, her heart began to beat in thick, painful strokes, and she was aware of a chill creeping into her bones.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,

And went without the meat, and cursed the bread:

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Shelly couldn't breathe. The room spun around, and she was certain she was going to faint. She shook her head, fought for control. Only when she had command of herself did she look at the poem again, the last two lines leaping out at her.

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

Went home and put a bullet through his head.

The conclusion was inescapable. Like Richard Cory, Josh had taken his own life. She shuddered. Shut the book. Opened the book, reading as Josh must have done, again and again, the poem.

Like Richard Cory, Shelly thought numbly, Josh had hidden from the world the real man. Hidden whatever torments had led him to take his own life.

She sat there for a long time, the opened book clasped loosely in her hands, realizing that she'd only seen the face her brother had wanted her to see, and she wondered how many other faces Josh had hidden behind. Realized, too, that no matter how close, how dear, that no one ever really knows what goes on inside another person.

Closing the book, she set it down gently on the night-stand. She stood up, forcing her legs to hold her. Took a deep breath. Well, she wanted an answer, and she'd gotten it. The knowledge should have made her feel better, but it didn't, and she angrily pushed it away.
Damn you, Josh!

Unable to bear another moment in his room, she rushed out, her fists clenched. She'd deal with it, and she sure as hell wasn't going to let it blight her happiness. It was over. Done with.

Despite her brave resolution, she suffered a pang as she drove away from Josh's house that afternoon. More than ever she realized that it was no longer Josh's house. It had been hers for a while, and now it would be Nick's. She wondered what her brother would have thought of his son living in the house. Would he have been happy? Angry? She grimaced. Like so many things connected with Josh, it was something she'd never know. During the drive home, she brooded over the brother she thought she had known, but when she reached the turnoff to the cabin, she firmly put Josh and his suicide aside. She'd have to talk to Sloan about it, but not today. Today the wound was still too raw, the knowledge too new and painful, and she wanted nothing to spoil the joy that she and Sloan shared. Josh was the past, and theirs was the future. It was that simple.

Thinking of Sloan, a soft smile lit her face, and warmth flooded through her. Sloan loved her. She loved him. They loved each other. And
that
, she decided with a lifting heart, was the most important thing in the world.

Sloan had remained home that day—he'd a mare due to foal and hadn't wanted to be gone. When Shelly drove up, and he walked out of the cabin with a big grin, she knew his instincts had been right.

“What did she have?” she asked as she shut the Bronco door behind her.

He swept her up in his arms and swung her around. “The prettiest damn black-and-white filly you've ever laid eyes on.” His warm gaze rested on her face. “And she's not for sale. Figure I'll save her for our daughter.”

Shelly melted inside at the thought of bearing Sloan's child—boy or girl. They both knew that biologically time was fast running out for her, she'd be thirty-five years old in a few weeks and every year that went by decreased their chances of conceiving a child. Despite wanting a few years by themselves, they'd decided that if they wanted children, they had better not delay.

Her voice suddenly husky, she said, “Guess we ought to get busy then, don't you think.”

His arms tightened around her. “Yes,” he said gruffly, “I do.”

June slid into July, August passed and suddenly it was September. Walking up from the barn one evening where they had gone to feed the horses, Pandora ambling at their heels, they were surprised to see Nick's truck pulling up at the cabin.

Nick spotted them and walked to meet them. He smiled at them and bent down and gave Pandora a swift pat. “She treating you any better?” he asked Shelly.

Shelly glanced down at the little ball of black-and-silver fluff. “Let's put it this way: She tolerates me. Sloan is her god, and I am simply useful for tidbits and petting when he is too busy to pay attention to her.” She grinned and picked up Pandora. Nose-to-nose, she said. “Isn't that right, fur-ball?” Pandora stared at her, then gave her a tiny lick on the nose as if to say, “You'll do. Barely.”

They all laughed, and, with Pandora in her arms, they continued the short distance to the cabin. A much larger cabin these days. True to his word, Sloan had had a studio with a breezeway connected to the original structure built, and the kitchen had been enlarged. As Nick looked around, Shelly said, “It was fine for a bachelor, but I needed more room to cook. Plus we're thinking of building on a family room.”

Nick cocked a brow. “Am I to offer congratulations?”

Shelly shook her head. “Not yet. But we're hopeful.”

Sloan grabbed a trio of cold Carta Blanca beers from the refrigerator and, after opening and handing one to Nick and another one to Shelly, asked, “So what brings you out here this time of evening?”

Nick's face changed, and Shelly realized instantly that his air of nonchalance had all been an act. “What is it?” she asked anxiously. Nick took a deep breath and pulled out a white envelope. “The DNA results arrived this afternoon.”

“And?” she demanded. “Don't keep us in suspense.” Nick made a face. “I haven't opened the damned thing.” He looked at her, and she saw the blind terror in his gaze. He swallowed. “What if it doesn't prove anything? What if I'm not Josh's son?”

“But what if you are?” she asked gently. “Open it.”

He put his beer bottle down on the kitchen counter and, with shaking fingers, tore open the envelope. While Shelly and Sloan waited in an agony of impatience, Nick riffled through the papers. It seemed to take him forever to find what he was looking for, but they both knew the moment he found it. He blanched and gasped.

“What?” Shelly cried. Unable to stand the suspense a second longer, she grabbed his arm and began to read. She paled, her breath stopped, her eyes got big and round. She looked incredulously at Nick, who regarded her mutely, his expression dazed. “Oh, wow!” she muttered, her eyes locked on Nick's. “I never expected
this
! Who could have?”

“Well, goddammit, let me see,” Sloan growled and, taking the papers from Nick's nerveless hand, studied the printed words. He glanced from one white face to the other. “Guess this sort of explains everything, doesn't it?”

His voice sounding thick and rusty, Nick nodded blindly. “Yeah. I guess it does.”

The intensity, the enormity of the moment suddenly got to Shelly, and, tears welling in her eyes, she flung her arms around Nick. “It's not what we expected, but it's
wonderful
!” she said with something between a laugh and a sob. “Wonderful.”

Nick looked at her, dawning wonder in his eyes. “Are you sure? You're not upset? Angry?”

“How could I be,” she said softly, her face full of love, “when it gives me something I thought I had lost forever, something I never thought to have again…a brother.”

Dear Reader:

Well? What did you think of
Return to Oak Valley
? I'm hoping that you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Some of you are probably wondering why, after having written historical romances for over twenty years, I decided to try my hand at a contemporary. Let me tell you a big secret: I've been longing to write a contemporary since as early as 1980! You read the date right—19
80
. In fact when I signed my third contract for Avon Books (my first two-book contract by the way—
Gypsy Lady
and
Lady Vixen
had been contracted separately) I included a synopsis for a contemporary novel that I had hoped to write as my fourth book.

I envisioned it as an international thriller and the book moved all around the world from the United States to Iran, Morocco, and Mexico (I think—my memory is a little hazy on Mexico). Those were the days during the overthrow of the Shah of Iran, and I was going to use all the turmoil going on in the world at that time as the backdrop for the romance between the hero and heroine. Ah, the hero: Lance Devereaux. Seeing that name now I have to laugh. Have you ever seen a name that screamed fictional hero any louder? An interesting point: the heroine's name was to have been “Shelly.” Which was something I'd completely forgotten until I sat down to write this letter. Guess when I get an idea in my head, at least
some
part of it sticks around in the old subconscious. That long-ago contemporary novel had a great title too:
While Passion Sleeps
.

Ah, now you're all going “but you published a book titled
While Passion Sleeps
.” Yeah, you're right, I did—my third book. You'll just have to be curious about the original title for the third book, but in between the time I had submitted the book and the date of publication, there had been another book by a different author who had used a title extraordinarily similar, so my first title went out the window. It was crunch time, and we had to come up with a new title in a hurry (like
now
), so we stole the contemporary's title and Beth and Rafael's story came out as
While Passion Sleeps.

By the time I had finished that third book and was ready to start the fourth, the Shah of Iran was old news and the plot of the contemporary was no longer current. I still wanted to write a contemporary, but since I was doing so well with historicals Avon was against the idea of a contemporary from me at that time. Maybe just as well, because for the fourth book I ended up writing is one of my personal favorites:
Deceive Not My Heart.
Guess things work out like they're supposed to—whether we like it or not.

The longing to write a contemporary novel never went away—which isn't to say that I didn't thoroughly adore writing my historical romances—I just wanted to try my hand at something different. Think of it this way—even if you eat filet mignon every night, after a while, say twenty years, a change of diet would be greatly, dare I say,
desperately
desired.

When Warner Books offered me the opportunity to write a contemporary I leaped at it (and for a fat lady it was quite a sight). Of course, we had artistic differences: I wanted to do a serial killer novel…in Oak Valley. In the end, since we all loved the general idea of a place like Oak Valley, we compromised and my beloved serial killer got the, er, ax.

Not having a nice, nasty killer lurking around in the background to add drama and excitement gave me some rocky moments with
Return to Oak Valley.
Not only was it a new direction for me, but I didn't have the safety net of a creepy villain to get me through—you have no idea how many times I thought
Oh, man, if only I had a killer….
I never realized before how much I relied on my bad guys—or how much I enjoyed them. On the other hand, I never realized how wonderful it was to be able use the language and mores of everyday people.

OK, to answer the burning question: Is Oak Valley a real place? Well, it is and it isn't. The terrain is real. The atmosphere is real. But that's it, folks: Everything else is simply my imagination. Really.